Amen
by Serra-Of-Many-Names
Summary: After a harrowing hostage situation in which Maxwell is killed, Anderson experiences some psychological aftereffects even he is not used to. Rated for violence and possible sex.


There was only silence, and stillness, and the air of mocking superiority in the small tent.

The damn heretics had secured Anderson in a crude sort of straightjacket, arms crossed behind his back and tied with strips of tattered leather, the rest of his body fastened with the same. For what might have been a full day he had been lying on his stomach, facedown in the sand, struggling to get a breath of clean air and suppressing his increasingly painful hunger pangs. He hadn't been allowed to sleep, let alone move, and the position forced his shoulder blades together and crushed his ribs painfully against the ground. What he would give right now to turn over... to feel a drop of water on his parched tongue, chew something other than sand...

His head was jerked sideways from behind, and his neck cracked painfully at the unnatural angle as his body rolled slightly. "Look sharp, Catholic. We're not finished with you by a long shot."

Anderson mentally steeled himself for the pain he was doubtless would follow. For all their verbal taunting, the terrorists had only beaten him a bit to get him into the restraints. Now the wounds would be healed, and they would know. Perhaps not understand, but they would beat him harder and harder now that they saw his ability.

They couldn't kill him, at least, and questioning was worth a try. "What did you do--" the altered position did little to help his breathing-- "with Enrico?"

"Your blonde bitch is alive, Catholic." Anderson bit his tongue, hearing a snap and sounds of pain just outside the tent. That was Maxwell's desperate mewling. They were torturing him.

Another crack of the whip sent the younger priest tumbling through the tent flaps, knocking Anderson onto his back with Maxwell on top of him. He was shirtless, his back reddened and bloody from sunburn and whip marks, and he was sobbing without many tears; his body lacked the moisture to produce them. Almost instinctively, his arms went around Anderson's neck. "Alex... oh God, Alex..."

"Calm down," Anderson murmured, trying to quiet him before the terrorists forcibly silenced him. He saw in his friend the traumatized children he so often dealt with, clutching the first sign of comfort and sobbing hysterically as unintelligible words gushed from his mouth like the water he so sorely needed.

Maxwell gasped heavily against Anderson's chest, grasping the man as though he had some power to end his pain. "Make them stop!"

"Shh," Anderson soothed.

Abruptly, the Arab yanked Maxwell backward by his ponytail, drawing another whimper and pulling Anderson halfway upright. Maxwell's crying continued even as the man's boot forced him flat on the ground.

Anderson was silent.

The machine gun that had been lying on the ground was suddenly upright, and Anderson recognized the clang of his bayonets.

He was silent.

The man drove the machine gun's base through Maxwell's chest. Ribs cracked. Blood spurted. Maxwell's splitting scream was abruptly cut, a bloody lump of muscle skewered on the bayonet and ripped from his chest.

Complete silence, stillness, but for the man's footsteps. Peace for Maxwell.

Anderson closed his eyes against the priest's body and the Arab's voice, attempting to shut out hearing and sight at once. The sensation of Maxwell's still-pulsing heart against his cheek, coupled with the man's mocking voice, was awful. "Blood of Christ, eh, Catholic?"

The taste of hot blood in the corner of his mouth awakened something within him, something he had to suppress. "Get away."

"It's been two sweltering days without water, Catholic. Got to drink something."

Good God, how he wanted that blood.

"May as well sink your teeth into it, while you're at it."

No, no, no.

"Eat it or you'll never see your home again."

Even starved and dehydrated, he could far outlive this man. But there would be more. Always.

His tongue emerged slowly, just to taste it. Perhaps the taste would be enough to tide him over...

Before he knew it he had his teeth in it. Canines, fangs. Like a dog. Like a...

The stomp of a steel-toed boot quieted the tent. A thickly-accented voice filled his ears, along with the swish of a priest's robes.

"Don't move."

- - -


End file.
